After My Boyfriend Gifted My Shares to His Mistress

I couldn't sleep that night. The image of Sutton standing beside Kieran, basking in applause while wearing the title and shares that should have been mine, played on repeat behind my eyelids. By morning, my shock had crystallized into something harder—a cold determination to confront him.

The sun was barely up when I arrived at Kieran's penthouse. I'd been here countless times before, but always as the supportive girlfriend who stayed in the background. Today, I needed answers.

I used my key—he hadn't thought to ask for it back yet—and stepped into the marble foyer. The scent of expensive coffee and something else—something floral and cloying—hung in the air.

"Sutton?" Kieran's voice drifted from the bedroom. "Did you order breakfast?"

I froze, my hand still on the door handle.

"No need to get up," a woman's voice replied, followed by a throaty laugh. "I've got everything you need right here."

The coffee mug in my hand nearly slipped. It was the one I'd bought Kieran for his birthday last year—handmade ceramic with his initials. Now Sutton was using it, her red lipstick smudged on the rim.

I moved silently toward the bedroom, my heart hammering against my ribs. The door was ajar, steam escaping from the en-suite bathroom where the shower was running.

Kieran's laptop sat open on the bed, its screen glowing with an email inbox. A folder on the desktop caught my eye: "Project Replacement."

My fingers trembled as I clicked it open.

"The Montgomery girl is becoming a liability," I read in Kieran's familiar typing style. "Once the IPO is complete, we'll need to phase her out completely. Suggest positioning her as an 'advisor' with no real authority."

Sutton's reply made my stomach turn: "She's so pathetically devoted she'll probably beg to stay on anyway. We can always use her for the grunt work."

The shower shut off. I closed the laptop just as Kieran emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist.

"Aurelia?" His surprise quickly morphed into annoyance. "What are you doing here?"

Behind him, Sutton appeared in the doorway, wearing nothing but Kieran's dress shirt. She didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed.

---

A week later, I stood in the upscale grocery store in Bellevue, meticulously counting coupons. Fifty dollars had to last me until my next freelance check came in.

"Excuse me," I said to the cashier, "I think I need to put something back."

I reached for the carton of eggs, but before I could remove it, a familiar voice cut through the checkout line.

"Well, look who it is."

Kieran stood behind me, Sutton clinging to his arm like a designer accessory. He was dressed in a tailored suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent, while Sutton wore a dress that screamed "expensive" from every seam.

"Aurelia, still counting pennies?" Kieran's voice carried across the store. Several shoppers turned to stare. "I thought you'd have learned by now that living in denial doesn't pay the bills."

I felt heat rise to my face as the cashier looked between us with pity.

"Fifty dollars for groceries," Kieran continued, shaking his head. "That's pathetic, even for you."

He turned to the cashier. "Put her groceries on my card."

Before I could protest, he handed over his black card—the one I'd watched him gloat over when the bank issued it to him.

"Kieran, I don't need—" I began.

"Oh, this isn't about need," he interrupted. "This is about charity."

Sutton giggled, then pointed to a display near the checkout. "Oh, Kieran, they have that bag you said I should get."

It was a limited edition handbag, its price tag clearly visible: $5,000.

"Perfect timing," Kieran said, smiling at her. "Consider it an early bonus for all your brilliant work."

He handed the cashier his card again. "Ring that up too."

As the cashier scanned the bag, Kieran turned back to me. "Maybe it's time you got a real job, Aurelia. One that pays actual money."

---

Back in my cramped apartment, I moved with mechanical precision. I packed only what mattered—my journals documenting every strategy I'd developed, the external hard drive containing proof of my work, and the few photos I'd kept of my family.

Everything else could stay behind.

On the kitchen counter, I left my apartment key and a note. I thought about writing something profound or angry, but in the end, simplicity felt more powerful:

"Keep the change."

I stepped outside into the evening air and pulled out a phone I hadn't used in three years. The private number was still etched in my memory.

"It's me," I said when the line connected. "I'm ready."

Twenty minutes later, a black Rolls Royce Phantom glided to a stop before me. The driver stepped out, his uniform impeccable.

"Miss Montgomery," he said with a respectful nod. "Your mother is waiting."

As I slid into the leather interior, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the tinted window. The woman looking back at me wasn't the struggling, self-sacrificing girlfriend who had lived in poverty for love.

She was a Montgomery.

And it was time everyone remembered that.